


The Distraction of Another Life

by Moebius



Category: Mission: Impossible, Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moebius/pseuds/Moebius
Summary: Plans within plans within plans, all to get Ilsa where she really wants to be (and with whom she wants to be there).





	The Distraction of Another Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marginalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/gifts).



It’s a dark bar. Dark and smokey, from the polished mahogany of the bartop to the air that clings to Ilsa’s equally-dark coat. She sighs. The tobacco smoke, a bitter combination of cigars and cigarettes, tickles her nose. She orders a whisky — for show, mostly — then slides into a booth at the corner, melting into the shadows, watching.

Benji chirps in her ear, something about _The Godfather_ , but Ilsa’s not really listening. He’s only on the line on the off chance they’re ambushed by a third party. Nobody thinks the White Widow will double cross them. It wouldn’t be in her best interests. Ilsa wishes she had any ideas about what the White Widow’s interests actually were; she funds such good deeds with such bad ones. Ilsa is the one agent at the IMF who’s done the most profiling of the Widow, trying to sate a curiosity that’s burned inside of her since Paris. But it’s a general consensus around the IMF that the Widow is not a threat, so they continue to deal with her.

Still, this is not the sort of place Ilsa would have chosen to meet. It’s too cliché for her. It’s better suited for a Cold War spy; a clandestine operative meeting a double agent to exchange secrets for their respective Nation States. Not… whatever she is now, vaguely affiliated with a Western power or two, here at the request of a broker, a case of cash at a her side. Or maybe, she thinks ruefully, this is a place that is perfectly suited for who and what she is now.

Everyone in here is either a criminal or the kind of person who hunts criminals. Ilsa can be both, sometimes at once, depending on the mission. Today she’s not sure which side of line she’s standing on, and it’s put her on edge. Things were so much simpler when she knew she was one of the good guys, even if she had to do bad things. Of course, she’d never _really_ been part of the good side, because there was no such thing as a good side in statecraft. She sighs again, and makes a show of checking her watch.

“We’re just trying to keep mad men from blowing up the world,” Ethan had told her once. She’d asked him why they never had to worry about the mad women, but he’d thought she was kidding.

As if on queue, the White Widow makes her entrance. Framed at first by the light from the street, when she closes the door she becomes the beacon that draws all the eyes in the room. She's dressed in a sharp white suit, a white scarf tied around her neck and tucked into her black blouse.  Her blonde hair is pulled back, but loose strands curl out over her neck. Her fingers curl tightly over the silver handle of a walking stick as she looks over the room until her eyes fall onto Ilsa. She grins.  
  
"Great," Ilsa mutters. She remains as still as possible as the Widow moves over to her, never breaking eye contact, her steps so smooth that it seems she's floating along with the heavy smoke.   
  
"I'm glad it's you."   
  
_I bet you are_ , Ilsa thinks. But her actual response is a non-committal tilt of her head.

“It’s a pleasant surprise.” The Widow lowers herself into the booth. Her smile turns predatory.

Not for the first time, Ilsa wonders why it is that Ethan sent her on this particular mission, to make this particular exchange, with this particular woman. She knows that he considers the Widow to be an ally, but this seems calculated. He could have easily sent another agent. It’s not as though the Widow is someone to worry about. Even someone new to the field could do this. So why her? “Do you have the case?”

“Of course. But not here.” The Widow looks around. “It’s a bit too much of a cliché for my taste. I only picked it because I can make a grand entrance.”

Despite herself, Ilsa smiles. The Widow smiles back, softly this time, and, for a moment, she seems like any other woman Ilsa might meet in a bar for drinks. Not that she’s had time to meet anyone for drinks in the past few years. The thought of a previous life, of dates and drinks and flirting without worrying about uranium or plutonium or experimental weapons that could destroy a continent makes her wistful for a moment. But just a moment. Ilsa loves what she does, and she’s good at it, and she does it so millions of other people can go on dates, even when she can’t. “Where is it?”

“A secure location.”

“Which is?”

The predatory smile is back. “My hotel room.”

For a long moment, Ilsa says nothing. She could press the matter: demand that the Widow have the case brought to her. Or she could use the code word that would order Benji to find out where the Widow’s hotel room is and send an agent in to retrieve the case. But something in her knows where this ends, and wants to see it through. Something lonely, or hungry, or a combination of the two. “That doesn’t do me any good here, does it?”

“Indeed it doesn’t. I suppose there’s only one solution, really.” The Widow’s eyes sparkle. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Ilsa can practically _hear_ Benji’s jaw drop. “Do I have a choice?”

“It’s always a choice.”

She stares stonily at the Widow, then stands and holds her hand out, as if she’s a gentleman offering a lady a steadying hand. “Then let’s go.”

They travel in silence, in the back of a car driven by a large man who keeps staring at Ilsa. She doesn’t recognize him, but from the way he’s looking at her she assumes she fought him once, and won. That’s usually the look she gets from men in that situation.

The Widow notices, of course, but she says nothing and the silence continues, through the lobby of the hotel, in the elevator, and until they’re alone in the Widow’s suite.

“Do you want a drink?”

“No.”

“My name is Alanna.” She takes off her jacket. Her blouse is sleeveless, and Ilsa notices the gentle curve of her biceps. “But of course, you probably know that by now.”

In answer, Ilsa tilts her head. The Widow drops ice into two glasses, pours vodka over the ice, then brings a glass to Ilsa. “I said I don’t want a drink. Alanna.”

The Widow takes a sip of her vodka. “I asked him to send you.”

That certainly gets Ilsa’s attention, which she imagines is exactly why the Widow told her. “Excuse me?”

“Well, not in so many words, of course.” She smiles and sits down, looking up at Ilsa through her eyelashes. “Seat?”

Despite her desire to maintain some semblance of professionalism in this situation, Ilsa is tired of games. She sits. “I’m not for sale.”

“Is that what you think I mean? I’m not trying to buy you. I don’t buy _people_.” She’s obviously disgusted by the thought. “You know my record. I don’t do human trafficking. Just the opposite really.”

In her ear, Ilsa hears Benji confirm this and list off several organizations that the Widow funds that actively work against human trafficking. It reminds her that her team is listening in on everything that’s happening, and also that Benji is way too close with Ethan not to be in on whatever he has planned for this meeting. “Alright,” she leans forward just slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I told Ethan I was interested in meeting you, because I’d seen your work and everyone had made such a big to-do about you and your death. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.” The Widow smiles. “Ethan seemed amenable but said he couldn’t promise you’d agree.”

“I didn’t.” Her words are as much for Benji — and Ethan — as the Widow.

“Ah. I thought as much, given your reaction to everything.”

Ilsa sighs and looks around, gauging points of entry and exit, thinking of the different ways she could escape if needed, and inwardly chiding herself for not having done this immediately. She’s tired. It’s been a long six months since the Himalayas. Once she feels safe enough to handle herself if anything goes wrong, she reaches up and turns off her ear piece.

The Widow raises an eyebrow. “You’re free to go, you know. I’ll even give you the uranium.”

That surprises Ilsa. “Why?”

“You know, I’m not a some sort of supervillain. I do what I do because I’m good at it, and at the end of the day my work makes the world a better place, just like yours. Our methods may... vary… sometimes. But we’re not so different, you and I. Two sides of the same coin.” The Widow finishes her drink and sets the glass down. “I’ll get you the case.”

“Wait.” Ilsa finds that she has reached out to grab the Widow’s wrist. She feels the tendons flex under her grip, but the other woman makes no move to escape her hold. She thinks about a night that starts in a dark bar and ends in a hotel suite, and what that would have meant for her life before MI6. She pulls the Widow’s wrist towards her and presses her lips to the pulse point, feeling the steady thump of blood, smelling the subtle hints of vanilla and orange that make up the Widow’s perfume.

The Widow reaches down with her free hand, cupping Ilsa’s chin and lifting it so she can bring their lips together. It’s a soft kiss at first, but when she responds the Widow becomes more forceful. Maybe she is lonely and hungry, too. Maybe they really are more alike than Ilsa would like to think. This, Ilsa knows, is what everyone but her had planned for the evening. She decides she’ll be mad about it later.

Later, Ilsa disentangles herself from the sleeping woman beside her. She tiptoes quietly to the bathroom, to check in with her team. It’s Ethan who answers her. “So?”

“It’s done.”

“Which part?”

Ilsa rolls her eyes, then looks down at her bare legs. A small bruise is forming on her left thigh, about the size of a fingertip. “This was a hell of a way to set me up on a date.”

“Well you certainly weren’t going to ask her out.”

She grits her teeth to keep from yelling at him. Sometimes he’s insufferable. Most especially when his stupid plans-inside-plans-inside-plans work out. She loves him, like a brother — sometimes in a more complicated way — and he infuriates her like one.  “I’m taking some time off. A holiday.”

“Okay,” He’s amused, and surprised, which makes her feel a little better. “But Ilsa…”

Ilsa opens the door to the bathroom. Alanna is awake now, and smiles at her, lifting the duvet. It’s an invitation. “Yes?” Ilsa smiles at Alanna and moves back towards the bed.

“I’m going to need that case before you go off the grid.”

She sniffs, as if to tell him that it’s ridiculous he’d even question her sense of responsibility. “You’ll get it.”

  
  
  



End file.
